


All That We See Or Seem

by vvitchering (Witchering)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Magic, Plot Twists, Rescue, Spooky, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchering/pseuds/vvitchering
Summary: Geralt is perfectly content with his quiet life as an herbalist. He has a decent roof over his head, a beautiful sprawling garden, and the begrudging respect of the local villagers for his skills with potions and tonics. He's helping the world, in his own small way, and that's everything he's ever wanted. As the harvest season begins, the approaching festival of Saovine and the arrival of a wounded witcher threaten to unearth dark truths about Geralt's seemingly idyllic existence.An Eskel/Geralt story for the Sordid Saovine event
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 79
Kudos: 272
Collections: Sordid Saovine - The Witcher Halloween Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the thing about this fic is that I had planned to write it over the course of a month or two and ended up writing most of it the week before it was due to be posted. This is the longest story I have ever written. I cried real tears of frustration getting this thing written in time to be posted on Halloween. This version, as it stands, has not been beta'd because it ended up being almost twice as long as I expected it to be. This fic was a first for me in a lot of ways. All I ask is that you take this entire thing with a grain of salt and be gentle with me;;;;;
> 
> **[EDIT 11/17/2020] I finally edited this, oh my god, I apologize to everyone who read this previously and had to see all of those misspellings, typos, and the terrible formatting.**

The winds had picked up seemingly out of nowhere, fierce and strong.

Every tiny crack in the old cottage whistled and shrieked as the storm intensified. Floorboards creaked, the rafters seemed to moan mournfully overhead, but the cottage had stood the test of time and would continue to do so, gods willing. The herbalist frowned and slowed the motion of his mortar and pestle. He would have to find and seal all of the holes and weak spots before winter set in or he’d freeze with the first frost.

A storm of this magnitude this far into the harvest season was not a good sign. He hoped his garden would survive the unusual onslaught of wind, shielded as it was by the sturdy walls of his home.

It would be bad for business to lose a crop so close to winter. 

People depended on his elixirs, mixtures, and tinctures, and he had many orders to fill already in anticipation of the cooler season and the fast approaching Saovine festival. Feverfew and lavender balm, for the butcher’s eldest daughter who suffered from debilitating headaches. Mint, ginger, and sage for the woodcutter’s wife and her children with the weak stomachs. A simple sachet of bruised rosemary to soothe the old alderman’s nightmares, though the herbalist doubted that the man’s troubled mind would find peace in a simple pleasing scent. 

The village needed his services and recognized his worth, as evidenced by his many regular customers who paid in all manner of things from coin to hens to preserves.

His skills were essential, but not his presence.

He didn’t feel threatened by the villagers; rather, he felt they feared him. They knew his heritage, saw his mother in his unruly red hair and pale green eyes, and offered respect, but not camaraderie. His home sat apart from the village, well within the boundaries of the forest that surrounded them all, affording him privacy and peaceful silence. That suited him just fine. Solitude was an old and well loved friend, since his mother’s passing. 

She had been a powerful sorceress with particular interests in herbalism and alchemy that she hadn’t hesitated to pass along to her only son.

From the time he was small, Geralt had studied the world of plants and nature and their applications in medicine and magic. He may have lacked Visenna’s innate magical gifts, but his skill and intuition with herbs and simple charms were unmatched. He still lit the candles and burned the incense in her memory, as tradition demanded, and thought of her often and with fondness. But never did he feel that his life would be greatly improved with the addition of human company.

He had his garden, a few animals, and his books. His knowledge and craft were in demand, he wanted for very little, and his life was peaceful.

He was content.

A crack of thunder startled him and the pestle slipped from his hand to land with a thud on the floorboards.

He huffed in annoyance at himself and bent to retrieve it before it could roll away. As he reached for the fallen instrument, a horrible ringing howl cut through the sound of the wind and storm. It was awful, high pitched and piercing and inescapable, as if it were coming from within his own head. His ears throbbed and rang. His vision swam and spotted and he swayed dangerously, feeling as though he may faint. His heart began to race and a vicious and deep primal fear seized him in it’s grip.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even cry out as pure terror clawed its way through him and left him frozen in its wake. 

Abruptly, the unnatural howl ended.

Geralt dropped forward onto his knees and palms as he breathed deeply and erratically. The icy terror in his chest lingered. His ears buzzed angrily with the echo and his blood felt chilled and panicked in his veins. He lifted one hand and was embarrassed to see that he was shaking. He felt at his throat for the silver pendant that lay under his collar. The smooth metal felt familiar and grounding as he clutched it.

It was plain, a silver disc with a crude rune he couldn’t identify etched into the back, and it was older than his oldest memories. A gift from his mother, it grounded him with its familiarity and further eased his mind with it’s practicality. Silver warded off most monsters and creatures with its lethal burning touch, and even afforded a small amount of protection against weak curses if kept on one’s person at all times. 

The instant he was able to catch his breath, he clambered unsteadily to his feet and crossed the room to the front door. The simple protections etched into the door frame remained in place. No salt lines had been crossed and no wards had been broken.

Outside, the only noise was the mild rain and the light breeze through the trees. There were no frantically braying animals, no footsteps, and no sign of the otherworldly bone-rattling howl or it’s source. The cottage itself was as silent as it had ever been. It was as if the storm, and whatever wraith, banshee, or demon had screamed into the night, had never existed. He gave his head a shake. It was a powerful trick for his own mind to play on him, but within the realm of possibility.

It was late and he had been working with powerful herbs for hours without rest, so perhaps the disturbing episode was a sign that it was time to set his projects aside and retire for the evening. He ignored the small piece of him inside that still shook with fear.

He was safe. 

He carefully capped, sealed, and put away his ingredients and tools, checked the old wards once more for peace of mind, snuffed the candles, and went to bed. He slept fitfully. His dreams were full of strange places he had never been, faces he did not recognize, and booming voices he could not understand.

When he woke the next morning, exhausted and on edge, the ground outside was clear of any debris and dry as a bone.


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps in spite of the atmosphere of the night before, the sun shone bright and warm and the sky was clear and blue as Geralt trudged through the day’s chores. The air was cool and smelled of fallen leaves and wood-smoke, scents Geralt associated deeply with the approach of the harvest season. His garden was flourishing with rows of autumnal vegetation and herbs that loved the crisp temperatures and short shady days. The lone scraggly apple tree that stood at the side of the cottage hung heavy with ripe fruit that needed to be picked and packed.

He gathered a few on his way to the stables for Roach, who’s surly attitude could always be sidestepped with sweet treats. She accepted his offering happily and ambled out of her stall without a fuss so he could properly muck it out. She was a smart thing, and unerringly loyal despite her temperament. He trusted her to follow her usual routine of walking to and from her favorite pasture unsupervised while he worked.

The stables took the majority of the morning to clean and tidy. Much of the equipment and tools from the warmer seasons could be packed away and stored in the upper level of the stables for safe-keeping until they were needed again next year. By the time he had completed all of the heavy lifting, the sun had shifted in the sky significantly and the afternoon was becoming chilly. The cool air felt refreshing against his overheated skin and Geralt took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead and survey his progress. 

The front yard was bare of its usual clutter; all of the outdoor work stations meticulously broken down and packed away. He would continue his business inside the cottage, utilizing his workshop and the smaller alchemical sets and mills he kept for indoor use. There was always risk in working with reactive materials in enclosed spaces, but his novice days were far behind him and it wasn’t as if he could work efficiently in his yard when temperatures began to drop more dastrically and the snow began to fall.

All that was left to do was continue gathering ingredients from his garden as long as they continued to bloom to bolster his dried stocks. Rosemary, thyme, and mint were hardy little things but even they would succumb to winter’s ravages.

He yawned and stretched his tired arms above his head and winced as his shoulder popped. The poor night’s rest had not been kind to him. He had checked the perimeter upon waking, half expecting to find evidence of some terrible creature that had stumbled onto his property. Of course there had been nothing amiss. The land around his home was well warded, just as his cottage was. His mother had been cautious and protective in life. Nothing with foul intentions would make it past the barriers unscathed. Already the terrifying experience had faded somewhat from his memory and he chided himself for how he had reacted to simple exhaustion.

A grown man, a master of his craft, acting like a scared child in the face of a simple sound, how embarrassing. Saovine was weeks away still and yet he was feeling its chilling influence already. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of frantic feet on the dirt path some several yards away. A feminine voice called out to him.

“Master Geralt! Please, I need help! Someone has been injured! Are you there?”

He recognized the voice. Maja, the butcher’s eldest. Before his tinctures, she had suffered for years with unexplained headaches and the relief she found in what he provided had made her a loyal customer and the closest thing to a friend he had in the village. 

He ran in the direction of her voice and found her just down the path, red-faced and struggling with the weight of a large man draped across her shoulders. Maja was no delicate flower. Geralt had seen her assist in her father’s shop hauling hunks of meat and wielding heavy knives and mallets as well as any man, but the stranger she was dragging along was huge. 

“What happened?” he demanded as he grasped the man’s other arm to pass across his own shoulders. 

“Something chewed him up good, that’s what happened. Healer Van won’t touch him. Said he doesn’t deal with ‘his kind’.” Maja said, the tone of her voice suggesting she didn’t agree with the crotchety old medic. 

_‘His kind’_

Geralt was familiar with Van’s brand of bigotry. The man had openly despised Visenna and still refused to consult with or do business with Geralt as a result of his prejudice, despite Geralt not inheriting his mother’s gift for magic. Geralt tried to get a better look at the injured man as he and Maja dragged his bulk towards the cottage. His ears were rounded, his fingers ended in dirty but perfectly human-looking fingernails, and the blood soaking through his armor was red and warm and smelled of iron. 

“Here, hold him, I’ll get the door.” Maja said, ducking out from the man’s other side to pull the door wide enough for the two men to pass. Without her help, the man’s bulk proved problematic even for Geralt, who was not a small or weak man himself. Once inside, the two of them were able to situate the stranger on Geralt’s bed, as he wouldn’t fit on the tiny cot he kept for sick clients. Finally, Geralt was able to get a decent look at his new guest. 

Much of his weight and size, it seemed, came from the thick protective armor he wore. Not a knight’s metal chain mail and plating, but thick leather and delicate but deceptively strong metal reinforcement that covered his vital areas. His upper arms were protected by spiked pauldrons seemingly crafted to prevent anything from getting a grip on the man. It was specialized armor, reminiscent of the light leathers hunters wore, but altered and strengthened for other purposes. A medallion hung from around his neck. A silver wolf’s head, its mouth open and growling. 

“Can’t you do something? He hasn’t done anything wrong. He showed up yesterday looking for work, though I didn’t hear what sort. He left in a hurry after he spoke to the alderman and then showed up again this morning looking like a dragon’s plaything! And no one lifted a finger to help once Van started with his godsdamned preaching.”

Maja said as she wrung her hands uselessly. They were stained red with the man’s blood. “I don’t care what he is. No one deserves to bleed out in the streets like that.”

Geralt was already reaching to undo the man’s armor to better assess the wounds.

“I’ll do what I can. Go wash up at the well and bring a bucket of water to boil on your way back, please.” 

Maja cast one last look at the unconscious man and nodded tightly before running back out the door. 

Geralt peeled back the armor, wet and sticky with blood, and found several deep gashes cut into the man’s arms and waist. This man had been in a fight, and not with any common bandit, by the look of it. Already his skin was purpling with deep tissue bruising along his ribs and left arm. Defensive wounds, and several from heavy impacts. He was heavily scarred with what looked like years of accumulated battle wounds. Long thin silvery sword scars, big puckered marks from projectiles, huge jagged bursts from blunt force, and more than several that looked suspiciously like huge bite marks from monstrous mouths.

But the worst of the scars were on the man’s face.

The entire right side of his face was disfigured by long cruel scars that sliced down through his forehead and brow, narrowly missed his eye, and continued down his cheek to his mouth, where they twisted his upper lip into a mean looking snarl. Geralt could see a bit of tooth showing through the notch. They were old, long healed, but they were gruesome and made Geralt wince to think how long this man had suffered as they healed. 

Maja returned hauling two full buckets of well water and set to boiling them in the hearth as Geralt had asked. As he waited for the water to boil, Geralt pressed gently along the length of the man’s left arm where the bruising was worst. Even unconscious, the man let out a pained whine at the touch. Broken, then. He would have to set and wrap the limb to ensure it didn’t heal incorrectly and rob the man of his livelihood, whatever that may be. His ribs would have to be bound as well. 

Once the water had been boiled and cooled enough to use, Geralt set to cleaning the man’s wounds. The bleeding had already slowed on its own, curiously, and Geralt bandaged them neatly with a poultice of crushed calendula flower and witch hazel smoothed within the strips of linen to aid the healing process. Maja sat by the man’s head and gently dabbed at a scratch near his hairline. The touch seemed to rouse him somewhat and he groaned in pain. Geralt placed a grounding hand on the man’s less injured shoulder to stop his movement. 

“Stay still or you’ll open your wounds again. You’re safe here.” Geralt said softly, and the man seemed to settle again. 

“Geralt,” Maja began with a strange tone in her voice, “I stopped to pick up his pack on my way to the well. He had weapons with him.”

That wasn’t uncommon. The world was a dangerous place and this man certainly looked like someone who often found himself mixed up in danger. 

“He had two swords.”

That was less common.

Much less common, in fact. Geralt could only think of one instance where a mysterious stranger armed with two swords was shunned by people for seemingly no reason. 

“I think it’s time you went home, Maja. I’ll take it from here.” Geralt said, rising from the bedside.

“Hold on, you’ve realized it too, haven’t you? You’ve heard the stories. What if he’s a…” 

Geralt shooed the increasingly nervous girl from the room and followed close behind. For the first time since her arrival, she looked fearful, robbed of her blind desire to help a helpless stranger. The blood and wounds hadn’t phased her in the slightest but the mention of old legends had her quaking in her muddy boots. 

He could hear her shifting her weight from foot to foot anxiously as he rummaged through the packages of packed orders on his desk. 

“Here, your next month of herbs, and some extra sweet mint for your mother. On the house, as thanks. And if you could do me one other favor,” Geralt pressed the package into the shocked girl’s hands and herded her towards the door.

“Don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want you to get involved. You visited me for your usual order, that’s all.”

Maja looked horrified. 

“If that’s truly what I think it is, you’re not safe here alone! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, honestly, I didn’t. And it’s so close to Saovine, gods, what a horrible omen. If I had known he was a _witcher_...” Maja cried.

“You helped a man in need when no one else would. Now, go home. Make sure you’re taking those herbs twice a day, as I’ve told you.” Geralt said evenly. 

The poor girl still looked on the very edge of tears and Geralt gave her a small smile in hopes of reassuring her. She sniffed once and then threw her arms around him in a quick but tight hug. 

“Be careful.” she whispered, and then she was gone, out the door and down the path as if she were being chased. 

Geralt watched her go until he could no longer see her back or hear her footsteps. 

The sun was setting in earnest, earlier and earlier each day as winter drew closer. The sky was streaked with pink and orange as the sun slowly sank beyond the tree line. Geralt shut the door hurriedly in an attempt to keep the chilly evening air out of the warm cottage. He had an injured guest now, after all. 

The witcher was exactly how Geralt had left him, prone and pale on the bed. His chest barely moved and Geralt worried for a moment the man’s breathing had stopped altogether. He quickly kneeled at the bedside and raised his hand to the witcher’s nose to check his breath. Almost instantaneously, Geralt’s wrist was caught in a weak but desperate grip. The witcher’s eyes opened just slightly, revealing eerie golden irises. The slitted black pupils grew and shrank rapidly as the disoriented witcher attempted to focus on Geralt’s face. 

“Easy, friend. Just me again.” Geralt tried to soothe, though it seemed the sound of his voice only further distressed the witcher. The grip on his wrist tightened by a fraction as those strange eyes locked on his own.

“ _G’ral...t?_ ”

Shock robbed Geralt of his words. As Geralt abruptly sat back on heels in surprise, the witcher’s eyes closed and his grip went slack, hand falling uselessly back to the bed. The skin of Geralt’s wrist tingled and buzzed where the witcher’s fingers had been and he half expected to find marks seared into his flesh when he looked down at himself. 

His name, unmistakably, spoken by a man, _a witcher_ , who he had never met once in his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absolutely amazing Anna Blume has created several pieces of art for this fic! First up, we have Geralt as he appears in this story, and a look at Eskel's arrival with Maja (who some people were convinced was Jaskier at first!)
> 
> [Eskel arrives (+ Not Jaskier)](https://twitter.com/annablumedraws/status/1317986513662214145?s=20)


	3. Chapter 3

_“...For the witcher, heartless, cold_

_Paid in coin of gold_

_He comes, he’ll go, leave naught behind_

_But heartache and woe_

_Deep, deep woe”_

The melody had taken a while to remember, but he was sure he had it now.

There wasn’t much known about witchers as a species and the few details Geralt could recall were more than a little fuzzy and unreliable. He did, however, remember a song his mother had liked to sing to him as a young child. Her sweet tones and his youthful lack of comprehension had disguised an otherwise upsetting song and turned it into a much beloved lullaby. It was his first exposure to witchers and it did not frame them kindly.

None of the texts he could find had any love lost for witcher-kind, either. Among the many tomes in his collection, witchers were only mentioned a bare handful of times. One grimoire described them as little more than wild eyed blood-thirsty beasts, no better than the hellish creatures they hunted. Another had a lengthy chapter on the dangers of invoking a witcher’s assistance and the possible outcomes. Highlights included such horrors as kidnapping, cannibalism, blood sacrifice, and plague.

Geralt closed each book with a weary sigh. Writers wrote for the sport of it, it seemed, and disregarded reality in favor of colorful fantasy. Having grown up in a home that embraced magic, Geralt was familiar with the particular brand of weaponized prejudice that painted anything even remotely nonhuman as evil and bestial. 

This witcher certainly didn’t appear to be the kind of threat the texts insisted he was. He hadn’t been able to manage more than Geralt’s name before he had shuddered and sank once again into an exhausted sleep. Geralt had eased the man out of most of his armor and given him a more thorough examination. He was around the same height as Geralt, but built entirely differently.

Geralt was not ashamed of the state of his body by any measure, but the sheer amount of muscle on the witcher would put any man to shame. And he was dense, as if his muscles were made of woven metal, rather than flesh and blood. The witcher was thicker and softer around his middle, typical of very strong men who valued performance over aesthetics. 

For all his impressive musculature, it was the witcher’s scarred face that kept drawing Geralt in.

As the herbal remedies began to work to soothe his pain, his face had relaxed and smoothed out, revealing a handsome profile. His nose was broad with a strong bridge that gave the man a capable and strangely affable look, despite his mangled upper lip. There were faint lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes, hinting at a pleasant personality and good humor. This man smiled easily and often, Geralt felt sure of it. 

The witcher hadn’t regained consciousness since the first night, but Geralt dutifully changed his bandages and reapplied the salves and poultices. Twice a day, he supported the witcher’s head and helped him drink down a small measure of herbal infusion, in the hopes that the mild brew would do more good than harm. Color was beginning to return to the witcher’s face and he no longer made pained noises at every small movement. It was progress, however slow, but Geralt found himself quickly growing impatient for the man to open those odd golden eyes again. 

In the early evening of the third day, he got his wish.

Geralt was preparing the evening’s dose of healing drought when the sound of the bed frame creaking caught his attention. The witcher was awake. And trying to escape, it seemed.

He caught the injured man unsuccessfully attempting to force his still-broken body to stand up from the bed. A few of his bandages were bled through already from the strain and Geralt stepped forward quickly to press the man back into the mattress. He went easily, revealing his still delicate health. Geralt didn’t imagine there were many things that could push this man around when he was at full strength and with all of his wits about him. 

“Hey, stop ruining all my hard work. You’ve torn your wounds open again with all that struggling.” 

The witcher startled once more at the sound of Geralt’s voice and again turned his strange cat’s eyes on him. His gaze was a bit disoriented still, most likely the influence of all the soothing herbs Geralt had forced on him, but there was a spark of something in their depths. 

“You’re helping me. Why?” the witcher asked. His voice remained as rough with disuse as it had the first time, although Geralt noted with some relief that the witcher had relaxed back into the pillows.

“Because you needed help.” He answered truthfully, ”There are decent folk left in this world, believe it not.”

The witcher chuckled at that, but not unkindly. 

“You’ll have to excuse my suspicion. Not a lot of ‘decent folk’ out there interested in nursing wounded witchers back to health.” the witcher explained.

“I could have stuck a knife in your heart while you were out cold if I wanted you dead.”

That won Geralt a real laugh, warm and resonating. 

“Fair enough, I suppose.” the witcher glanced around curiously. “Looks like I’m an unwanted guest in your home. My apologies for the intrusion, Master Alchemist.” 

Geralt blinked. It wasn’t a hard thing to guess, considering the volume and variety of dried flowers, vegetation, and various other bottled ingredients that decorated the walls and shelves of the cottage. He tried not to feel disappointed that the witcher hadn’t used his name this time. 

“My specialty is in herbs and medicine, actually. Alchemy is more a byproduct.”

The witcher nodded in understanding and raised his arm to sniff at his bandage. 

“Calendula and, hmm, witch hazel?”

“You know your plants.” Geralt said. “And a few other things. You called me by my name the first night you were here.”

The brief flash of emotion in those golden eyes could have been easily missed, but Geralt had always prided himself on his keen observational skills. The emotion, whatever it had been, was gone in an instant and replaced with a sheepish grin. 

“Your friend was very chatty,” The witcher explained. “When the healer kicked me out in the street, she really caused a scene. Tossed your name around a few times along with a few _very_ colorful expletives. But you’re right, it was rude of me to use yours without offering mine. Can we start over?”

The witcher held out his hand and Geralt barely hesitated before grasping it in his own. The witcher’s grip was stronger now, firm and warm, and Geralt shivered at the familiar feeling of magic dancing just under the skin. 

“I’m Eskel. Nice to meet you, Geralt.”

Though the smile the witcher offered was kind, Geralt couldn’t help but notice the sharp wolf-like fangs the action revealed. Strangely, it didn’t bother him a bit. 

_“...As the witcher, brave and bold_

_Paid in coin of gold_

_He’ll chop and slice you_

_Cut and dice you_

_Eat you up whole._

_Eat you whole.”_


	4. Chapter 4

Once awake, Eskel’s healing accelerated past anything Geralt had ever witnessed.

The gashes on his side closed within a day. The bruising along his ribs faded through its rainbow of colors in a matter of hours, leaving no indication there had ever been an injury at all. Soon, all but the deepest of the wounds had closed and were well on their way to scarring.

Geralt insisted on keeping the bandages on until he was satisfied the gaping holes had sealed themselves up. Eskel submitted to the attentions with good grace and better humor, seeming to thoroughly enjoy being treated with such care. His left arm rested in a simple sling, though Geralt would place a hefty bet on the broken bone being long healed as well, though Eskel did admit the limb still felt tender. 

He was amazed at the resilience Eskel showed in the face of such grievous wounds.

A human man could have easily died several times over from any one of the injuries Eskel had almost completely recovered from. Eskel was more than happy to let Geralt poke and prod at his body and even answered Geralt’s seemingly endless stream of questions about his biology, the mutations, and others of his kind.

The only question he refused to answer was what had done this to him in the first place. He dodged the questions like an acrobat, distracting Geralt with stories of other hunts, of his home in the northern mountains, and even about his own dabbling in alchemy. Whenever Geralt attempted to ask about the details of Eskel’s encounter with the mysterious force, the witcher would shrug it off with one of his easy smiles.

And so their routine continued for days as Eskel rested and healed and Geralt paced the floor and talked aloud about his theories. 

“Couldn’t have been a normal animal," Geralt mused. "The only thing around for miles are wolves and the occasional warg. Not exactly the most fierce opponents for a witcher.” 

“Hmm, could have been, sure.” Eskel's response was nonchalant and a touch amused.

“So it _was_ wolves?”

“No, Geralt. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t a warg either.”

Geralt, who had indeed been about to ask that, shut his mouth with an audible click. 

“Honestly, you don’t have to worry. It’s under control and I wasn’t even hurt all that badly. Look, I can even move my arm a bit today.” Eskel said, giving a little wave with his left hand.

Geralt didn’t miss the twinge of pain he saw flash across Eskel’s smiling face. 

That was something he had learned about Eskel the longer they spent in each other’s company. The man had a habit of lying about his own feelings to spare Geralt’s.

He would always reply in the positive when asked how he was feeling but Geralt would catch him wincing when he shifted out of the corner of his eye. Eskel politely cleaned his plate each time food was offered, but he never asked for more, and he ate in slow measured bites. Simply by the look of him Geralt could tell he was fighting back pain, despite how quickly his mutated body worked to heal him.

Yet he was more concerned with making Geralt, a virtual stranger, worried. It was... sweet, in a way, though it left Geralt feeling annoyingly flushed if he thought about it too hard. He wasn’t some maiden to be coddled, no matter how charming Eskel thought he was. And he wouldn’t stand for someone in his care to suffer out of some misguided attempt at chivalry. 

“Eskel,” he began as he was rewrapping the witcher’s shoulder. “I can tell you’re still hurting. The tonics I use to treat pain clearly aren’t strong enough to work on you.”

He waved off Eskel’s attempt as denial and glared at him until he was sufficiently cowed.

“You mentioned you brew potions. Is there one that can help you heal faster? Take away some of your pain?” 

Eskel grimaced slightly as Geralt pulled a bandage a bit too tightly to better illustrate his point. 

“Yes, there is one that could help, but I’m fresh out at the moment. And I don’t suppose you keep a supply of drowner brains on hand for your remedies, do you?” 

He decidedly did not. Necrophages like drowners had highly toxic flesh and ingesting any part of one would cause horrible illness in a human at best, and a slow and painful death by posioning at worst. 

“I don’t have any monster bits in stock, no, but I might have an alternative. Are you feeling well enough to go for a walk?”

“If it means a chance to get out of this bed and stretch my legs, I’m feeling well enough for anything you can throw at me.”

* * *

The garden was Geralt’s favorite place.

Forget the villages, the cities, the great sprawling ruins of ages past; he’d take his tiny scrap of land over it all a hundred times over. It was planted strategically so that a bit of it was in perpetual shade, hiding in the shadow of his home, for the plants that would flinch away from direct sunlight. The rest basked in the late afternoon sunlight.

Most of the plants were in bloom or fruiting, or just about to. This would be the last harvest of the year before the cold of winter wiped the flowerbeds clean. 

Eskel seemed suitably impressed with the variety and care taken to organize everything. Once Geralt undid the latch that held the gate closed, Eskel immediately wandered off to inspect the flowers. He rubbed delicate purple hellebore blossoms between his fingers, assessing their size and texture. He bent to sniff at the bright yellow celandine and nodded in satisfaction.

Geralt knew his blooms were some of the finest available for miles, but having Eskel’s approval made something deep in his chest feel warm and satisfied. 

He’d forgone a shirt, not feeling particularly eager to pull at his still tender torso and arm. The sunlight suited him. His skin was richly tanned from a life spent under the sky, not a thatched roof. To Geralt’s surprise, Eskel’s deep brown hair flashed almost auburn in the sunlight.

It was nowhere near Geralt’s own fiery red, but it complimented the warmth in his golden eyes in a way that made Geralt’s breath catch in his chest. 

Geralt wrestled his attention away from observing the lines of Eskel’s back as the witcher studied the rows of common herbs with interest. Just because Eskel was attractive, kind, and showed interest in the important aspects of Geralt’s life did not mean that it was acceptable or wise to grow attached to his company.

He would finish healing and leave, never to be seen again, and Geralt would return to his life of quiet solitude with a new story to tell, nothing more. The thought lacked any of its usual comfort. Instead, Geralt felt an unfamiliar pang in his heart.

It seemed the traitorous organ had no interest in following what was acceptable or wise.

In an attempt to distract himself, Geralt plucked the small hand scyth he kept hanging on the fence and began to go over his mental list of supplies. He wouldn’t complete his whole harvest for a few more days, but he hoped the repetitive soothing motions of cutting and trimming would ease his aching and anxious heart. 

“You have a whole kingdom’s worth of plants in here. Several, even.” Eskel said suddenly, startling the herbalist out of his thoughts. 

“Gotta keep myself stocked up somehow. Have you found anything that might be helpful?” Geralt asked, knealing to get a better view of some goldenrod. 

Eskel hummed lowly, considering. 

“Foxglove might work to replace the elements from the drowner parts we don’t have but--”

“Foxglove is--”

“Extremely poisonous, I know. So is the necrophage flesh we’re trying to substitute for, Geralt. Witchers have built in immunity to most poisons. Well, not immunity so much as tolerance. They can have nasty side effects.” Eskel explained with one of his wide smiles. 

Geralt gaped at him, mildly alarmed. Eskel flustered slightly.

“It’s just one of the joys of being a mutant, I suppose. We’re exposed to toxins as kids and those of us that survive end up with inhumanly high thresholds for lethal poisoning. A little foxglove is weak compared to the shit in some of our other potions.”

“You said there’s side effects. I’m trying to heal you, not hurt you again.” Geralt said uneasily, still caught up in horror of children, _Eskel as a child_ , being slowly fed poison. 

Eskel waved off the concern. 

“Not with Swallow. That’s the one I aim to recreate. We use it like a stamina booster when we’re out on the path. It’ll stop bleeding, seal up smaller wounds, and buy a little extra time for the more serious ones. It’s saved my life more times than I care to count and it comes with minimal toxicity.”

Evidently Geralt was doing a poor job getting his still-horrified expression under control and Eskel laughed heartily.

“You’re a soft touch, Geralt.” he said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I like that about you.”

“I’m not a ‘soft touch’, I just don’t like needless suffering.” Geralt grumbled, embarrassed.

He sliced through several stalks of goldenrod and pretended to be involved in wrapping it for storage to cover the flush on his cheeks. 

“Be thankful we’re not after the ingredients to make Thunderbolt, then. That’s not a fun one. Too much of that will put even a witcher on their ass pretty quick.” 

Eskel was still chatting animatedly, still poking around in the flowers and herbs, but his words became strangely muffled, like he was speaking from far away. The afternoon sun seemed to dim until it looked hours later, approaching late evening. Geralt was in his garden, but somewhere else entirely. He was seeing an unfamiliar forest as if it were superimposed over everything else and in that place it was dark, cold, and he was in pain. 

His breath came faster like he’d been exerting himself and every desperate lungful of air made his pulse pound louder in his ears. He could feel the throb of veins close to the surface of the skin on his face and neck, burning with unseen fire. He bit into his lip and felt the prick of too-sharp teeth.

Nausea rolled in his stomach and he could taste the remnants of something foul in his mouth. He leaned forward, almost overcome with the intense sensations and dizzy from the strange forced second perspective.

The hair that fell in a curtain around his aching face seemed to rapidly shift from his own familiar red to blinding white. 

Someone was calling his name.

Two voices from two places at once. He squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth and the sound reverberated endlessly in his head. He tried to focus on something, anything, to snap himself out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

One voice seemed closer than the other and Geralt lurched towards it, desperate and afraid of the phantom images that had seized him. 

He heard his name called again, so much closer this time.

Practically in his ear.

There was warmth against him and he clung to it like a lifeline with frantic scrabbling fingers. Gradually, the overlay faded. The terror receeded. When he cracked open one cautious eye, the world was as he had left it. He was on his knees in the garden, the afternoon sun still high in the sky, and there were strong arms wrapped gently but firmly around him, holding his head against a soft chest.

A slow heartbeat thudded in his ear and he could feel deep even purposeful breaths. The strangely calming scent of petrichor and lightning filled his senses. 

It was like a string pulled too tight as he snapped back to full awareness.

He was leaning against Eskel’s chest, the witcher’s big arms comforting weights around his shoulders. He felt grounded by them as he struggled to catch his breath and make some sense of what had just happened. The cold terror had reminded him of the night in the cottage when he had been paralyzed with fear and anxiety over the noise of some unknown beast, but this had seemed so _real_.

He touched his face with his fingertips, searching for the raised veins he’d felt so clearly, but found nothing but his own pale freckled skin. Belatedly, he realized his cheeks were wet with tears and he reared back, ashamed. 

“Are you back with me? Geralt? Hey!” Eskel was saying. He sounded worried. 

“I’m, fuck, yeah, I’m fine, but what the _fuck_?” 

“You’re fine, its over. Take some more deep breaths. Here,” Eskel gently disentangled himself from the still shaken herbalist and got to his feet. The sling his left arm had been resting in dangled uselessly from his neck. Almost hysterically, Geralt realized Eskel hadn’t needed it anymore and had mostly likely been humoring Geralt in wearing it. 

A big calloused hand was thrust into his field of vision. Geralt raised his head and saw Eskel silhouetted from behind by the sun, the rays making a halo of light around his dark hair. He took the witcher’s hand and heaved himself up. His vision swam briefly, but it was only from the sudden change in posture, not the beginnings of another fit. 

“Has this ever happened to you before?” Eskel’s voice was soft with concern, but his eyes flicked rapidly up and down Geralt’s body, searching for something physically wrong. Geralt took a step back to straighten his clothes and push a few stray strands of hair back into their tie. 

“Once. A few days ago. Just before you showed up at my doorstep, actually. Strange things come in pairs.” 

“I’d say that was a bit more than a ‘strange thing’.” Eskel said with a frown. He looked like he wanted to reach out and help Geralt smooth the front of his shirt down, but his hands stayed at his sides.

“It’s almost Saovine,” Geralt responded, as if that explained everything. “Strange things are a part of the season. And I’ve been overworked lately. I have my orders to fill and now a witcher to look after. I’m a busy man. It’s stress, that’s all. It’s gotta be.”

Eskel looked as unconvinced as Geralt felt.

Saovine did arrive when the veil was thinnest, allowing all sorts of strange and wondrous things to unleash themselves on unsuspecting souls.

That’s all it was.

They unanimously decided to cut their garden outting short in favor of returning to the safety and warmth of the cottage.

Geralt shivered, despite the warmer air inside, and Eskel immediately set to work to stoke the fire in the hearth. It was a sweet gesture. Whether Eskel felt beholden to him for his help and hospitality or not, Geralt found that he far from minded the witcher’s continued company and assistance. It felt neither stifling nor patronizing. Eskel was simply a kind person; the antithesis of everything the world preached about witchers being emotionless killing machines. 

While the witcher poked at the fire, Geralt filled his kettle. A cup or two of his personal blend of herbal tea would help put both of their minds at ease. Going through the motions of tea making helped to bring some order to his scattered thoughts, but the images he had seen in his vision still haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, even to blink, he saw the dark forest around him and felt the ghostly sensations of a body that did not belong to him.

He tightened his fingers on the teacup he held until he felt it begin to crack under the pressure. 

“Damn.” he said under his breath. That cup had been a favorite of his.

The mumbled curse caught Eskel’s attention and he replaced the poker above the fireplace before crossing the room to stand at Geralt’s side, propped against the table where the unsettled herbalist traced the crack in his favorite teacup with a finger.

“Tell me about before?” Eskel asked and Geralt heaved a shaky breath.

Damn perceptive witchers.

“It’s embarrassing. I was working late, heard a noise, got spooked, and hid in my bed like a child. But,” he paused to check Eskel’s reaction and was relieved to see nothing but concern in his eyes. “I know this area, lived here my entire life. Nothing I know of makes a noise like what I heard. And contrary to what you’ve seen since you got here, I don’t scare easily.” 

“You don’t have to prove your bravery to me, Geralt.” Eskel said gently, leaning closer to bump his shoulder against Geralt’s.

It brought some warmth back into Geralt’s body and he smiled at the feeling. Eskel seemed to know exactly what to say and how to prod him into feeling better. 

“Thank you, uh, for this. For talking to me. It’s...nice, to not be alone for once and you’re...not the worst house guest I’ve ever had. Though we have to work on your Gwent. It’s shit.” 

“Shut up and make your tea, asshole.” Eskel said good-naturedly. 

The banter felt good. Normal. It set Geralt’s mind more at ease. But when he looked over at Eskel, the witcher’s scarred lips were smiling, but the light was dimmer in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks faded.

Geralt returned to his task. Nothing a little tea and time wouldn’t fix.

He had both in spades. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for some more art! Anna illustrated the scene in the garden when Geralt looses grip with reality:
> 
> [Geralt 'Remembers'](https://twitter.com/annablumedraws/status/1324026769406676993?s=20)


	5. Chapter 5

The days quickly turned into weeks. Eskel’s injuries continued to rapidly improve until even Geralt had to admit that the bandages and sling were unnecessary. Eskel seemed happy to have full range of motion in his limbs again and began training in the mornings and evenings in Geralt’s yard.

He seemed restless and was short and cryptic in his responses when Geralt asked after him. 

“Witchers aren’t sedentary creatures. Our lives are spent on the path and I’ve been away a while, now, that’s all. Don’t trouble yourself over it.”

Eskel was going to leave eventually.

Realistically, Geralt knew and respected that fact. Privately, he was already mourning the loss of his company.

Eskel was considerate, thoughtful, and so unerringly _good_. His sense of humor kept Geralt laughing, even in his most brooding of moods. He was supportive and intelligent and had so much knowledge to share. Geralt was hungry for every word, every fact, that Eskel was willing to share. 

The herbalist was--had been-- accustomed to being alone.

The past weeks with Eskel had shifted his priorities. Now, with the potential to be alone once again visible on the horizon, panic began to buzz under his skin. Something about Eskel’s calm demeanor, clever wit, and sturdy presence resonated with Geralt. He filled a gap Geralt had never realized existed and now could never overlook.

But Eskel was leaving. He had to return to the path all witchers walked; thankless and cruel. 

The world was not kind to witchers. Very few would treat Eskel with kindness or compassion. His life would be one filled with danger, pain, and loneliness. Eventually, something would knock him down and no one would be there to help him back up. And Geralt would never even know.

The thought of Eskel alone and bleeding out in some godsforsaken swamp turned Geralt’s stomach and sent icy chills down his spine. Eskel could die on the path and Geralt, safe in his cottage with his herbs, would be none the wiser. 

It disturbed him deeply. He wanted Eskel safe. He wanted him close. He simply wanted him. 

Ah. 

He wanted him. 

And what a time to suddenly realize.

Saovine was only a day away and Eskel had not been subtle in gathering up his few belongings. He had become noticeably more withdrawn as well, offering Geralt only half smiles and subdued words. Worst of all, he had begun to physically distance himself.

Gone were the affectionate shoulder bumps and playfully slung arms over shoulders. Eskel stopped touching Geralt’s hair under the pretense of removing a stray petal or stem.

It all came to a head when Geralt managed to corner Eskel in the stables, where the witcher had been petting Roach and speaking softly to her in hushed tones. 

Their eyes met. 

“Geralt, ah, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” Eskel began.

“Tough shit, you have to listen to what I have to say first.” 

“Geralt--”

“No!”

Geralt felt emboldened by the outburst. All of his slow-burning panic, loneliness, and desperation fused into anger. Anger at the world for dropping Eskel into his lap only to pull him away. Anger at himself for taking so long to listen to his own feelings.

Anger even at Eskel, for allowing fate to drag him away without a fight. 

“Stay. I want you to. Stay here. Please.”

The look Eskel gave him was agonized. He slid his golden gaze away from Geralt’s fiery green like it hurt to see him. 

“You know I can’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“It doesn’t have to be hard at all! You could live comfortably here. Why go back to the path? What’s out there that could possibly make all the suffering worth it?!”

Eskel turned away and started to walk off towards the cottage. Presumably to gather his things and leave. Cold fear clawed its way up Geralt’s throat and he lunged after him.

“Look at me while I’m talking to you, you prick! Eskel!” Geralt yelled.

Eskel spun on his heel. In all the weeks of knowing the witcher Geralt had never once been afraid of him. Neither the gruesome scars nor the inhuman color and shape of his eyes had ever inspired anything less than awe.

But for the first time, Geralt felt a twinge of primal fear as a low rumbling growl stopped him dead. Eskel bared his teeth, scarred lip raised high in a real snarl that revealed his pointed fangs. His pupils were black slits in pools of molten gold, predatory and alien. He looked every bit the monstrous witcher from the legends.

Geralt took an involuntary step back, stunned at the sight, and Eskel’s fierceness shattered in an instant. 

“I--I’m sorry," Eskel sounded broken, miserable. "I just can’t. Believe me when I say this is for your own good. There are forces at work here you don’t, can’t, understand.” 

Geralt stared, at a loss for words still from Eskel’s animalistic outburst. 

“I really need to go.” There was nothing but anguish and resignation in Eskel’s voice as he once again turned to walk away. 

Geralt leapt forward and grabbed the retreating witcher’s wrist, halting him. 

“Please,” he repeated, desperate. “Just until after Saovine. Give me one more day.”

“Geralt--”

No more excuses.

Geralt always was a man of action. He yanked hard on Eskel’s arm and the witcher stumbled forward. The kiss was rough, almost painful at first as Eskel startled and Geralt pressed closer with the force of his desperation. Eskel made a weak sounding noise, almost a whimper, and relaxed into the kiss, reaching up to reverently cradle Geralt’s jaw. Geralt closed his eyes.

This time, the onset of visions came to him slowly and gently.

The cold stone walls of a castle, the clash of swords, cold mountain air, and a warm mouth on his, unsure but determined. Brown eyes, not yet gilded, and upturned mischievous lips, unmarred by scars. Geralt’s name whispered hundreds of times in the dark.

When he opened his eyes Eskel was crowded into his space and his forehead rested heavy against Geralt’s. The action stirred something inside. It felt intimate, familiar, like they’d done it hundreds of times, but Geralt could find no clear memory of it in his mind. His heart sang in his chest, proof enough of something that was just out of his reach. 

“I know you.” Geralt whispered, so close that his lips brushed Eskel’s face. 

Eskel didn’t respond with words. He peppered kisses along Geralt’s nose and cheeks and nosed tenderly at the junction of his neck and jaw as he inhaled his scent. Geralt grabbed at the back of Eskel’s head and tugged him back into a more suitable position for kissing. His other hand snaked into the witcher’s armor, mindful of the spikes, in search of warm skin.

Someone let out a low moan, though neither were sure who it belonged to. 

They stumbled to the cottage together, unwilling to separate for even the few moments it would take to cross the threshold. Eskel’s things were piled neatly by the door and Geralt almost fell into a panic again before Eskel pushed him the rest of the way inside and into the bedroom. 

Big warm hands shoved themselves up Geralt’s loose tunic and pushed against his chest until the backs of his knees hit the bedside. He fell onto the soft mattress and Eskel followed after him, leaning forward on his forearms to gaze down at Geralt with a tender look in his eyes. Geralt raised an eyebrow, cocky now that he had the witcher in his bed. Eskel huffed a laugh and lowered his head to bury his nose in the juncture of Geralt’s neck and shoulder, and bit the freckled skin gently. 

Geralt jolted suddenly and Eskel pulled back, alarmed. 

“Your armor.” Geralt said, pushing at Eskel’s jacket. “The spikes. I don’t think you need those here.”

Eskel exhaled in a rush, relieved.

He shrugged out of the jacket and pulled the shirt underneath off as well, bearing his chest for Geralt’s approval. The herbalist seemed pleased enough to trace over the scars that littered Eskel’s body from his hips to his collarbones. He had seen it before, of course, being the one who had nursed the witcher back to health, but he was seeing it now in a new light. Now he was allowed to appreciate it, covet it. He was allowed to touch and be touched in return.

So he did. 

They fumbled slightly when the need for slick became apparent and Geralt had to tiptoe into his workroom to retrieve a tiny bottle of oil that would serve their purposes. Eskel laughed at him as he reentered the bedroom, triumphantly carrying the bottle like a prize. 

“Lucky you keep things like that around.” Eskel said, spreading the sweet smelling oil on his fingers. 

“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Geralt responded, back arching as Eskel’s fingers breached him. 

“Right, you just happen to keep a selection of oils for occasions such as these, hmm?” The witcher spread his thick fingers and Geralt let out a pleased moan at the stretch. 

“For your information,” Geralt responded, a bit breathless. “I provide for all kinds of needs, not just medicinal. This is a, fuck, a best seller.”

“I bet it is.”

They talked very little the rest of the evening, forgoing words in favor of gasps and moans.

Eskel took Geralt gently, rocking their hips together and drawing the sweetest sounds he could from his partner. When Geralt begged for it, he was less gentle, and his thrusts drove Geralt’s whole body towards the headboard of his bed until the top of his head hit against it. Geralt reached up to brace himself better and threw back his head to expose his throat. The witcher obliged the unspoken request and sucked bruises into the pale flesh, marking him, and then soothing the slight sting with soft licks. 

The sensations proved too much for Geralt to handle and he came with a shout, coating his own stomach and Eskel’s with his spend. His sounds of pleasure tipped the witcher over his own edge and he took Geralt’s mouth in a crushing kiss as he filled him with his own release. Careful not to crush the smaller man beneath his bulk, Eskel lowered himself down, slipping free from Geralt as he did so. Geralt made a soft sound at the loss and reached up to wind his arms around Eskel’s neck to keep him close.

He tugged slightly and brought Eskel’s forehead down to touch his own. 

“Thank you.” Eskel whispered, brushing Geralt’s long hair out of his face with reverent fingers. 

“For what?” Geralt asked as he struggled to keep his eyes open. 

“Everything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna provided a whole comic rendition of the kiss scene from this chapter ;w;  
> [Kiss comic](https://twitter.com/annablumedraws/status/1329218112227520512?s=20)


	6. Chapter 6

The sun woke Geralt late in the afternoon.

He felt groggy and disoriented after so much sleep and rolled over onto his front to escape the blinding light streaming in through the window. His hair spilled over his face and tinted the light copper as it filtered through. The pillow he had rolled onto smelled of the air just after a storm, heady and electric. Eskel’s scent. The man himself was absent and the side of the bed he’d been sleeping on was cool to the touch. Geralt sat up in alarm and whipped his head around to survey the room. It was empty, save for him. 

He was alone.

He spotted a piece of folded up parchment sitting on the small table by his bedside that he didn’t recognize. A badly stylized ‘G’ was drawn on the front facing side. He snatched it up and almost ripped it in half in his haste. 

_Geralt,_

_Do not blame yourself for this. If it were up to me, I’d stay here by your side forever. There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be. I want you to trust me when I say that my leaving is the best thing for you. If I’m successful, none of this will matter. And if I’m not, neither of us will be around to complain. Either way, I’ll see you again soon, gods willing._

_Eskel_

Geralt read the note over and over but it made the same frustratingly little amount of sense each time. Eskel was gone and his cryptic note had an eerie sense of finality about it, despite the reassurance that they would meet again, soon.

Wherever he had gone, he would not be coming back. 

Geralt flung himself out of bed, nearly tripping over the disheveled and tangled sheets, and dressed as quickly as he could. His tracking skills were excellent. If he could pick up Eskel’s trail somehow, he could still catch up to him.

And then punch him straight in his thick head for sneaking out like he had, leaving nothing but ominous words in his wake. Eskel was important to him; past and present, he was sure of it. The visions hadn’t been visions at all, but fragmented memories. He knew deep in his bones that Eskel hadn’t been a stranger.

Something sinister was blocking out the relevant memories and Eskel somehow held the key to it all. 

It was quick work to saddle Roach and mount up.

The mare was thrilled to be ridden again after so long spent bored and grazing. Geralt patted her neck apologetically, leaned forward, and urged her into a gallop. The village wasn’t far, but the pace had Roach breathing heavily and tossing her head by the time they arrived at the gates.

The square was alive with preparations for Saovine. The effigy was already standing tall in its bed of kindling, waiting to be set aflame once the sun set. Decorations of all shapes and sizes were strewn about the buildings. Colorful gourds, stalks of corn, and bushels of apples laid everywhere there was space. Tables were being laid out and set with simple wooden plates and small candles.

Children ran to and fro, shouting joyously with excitement. 

The few people Geralt could get to stop long enough to speak to him had nothing of use to tell him. No one had seen the witcher. A few spit at his feet for daring to mention him and Geralt curled his fingers into fists at his sides in barely suppressed anger. He was wasting time. The longer he took to find Eskel’s trail, the less likely he was to find it at all. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand wrapped around his arm from behind. 

Maja, a crown of sunflowers woven into her hair and a basket balanced on her hip, stared at him in astonishment. 

“You’re not dead!” she exclaimed. “Weeks cooped up with a witcher and you’re not dead! Gregor owes me a crown.”

Geralt took her by the shoulders and lowered his head to her level to speak to her quietly, but urgently.

“Of course I’m not dead, godssakes, listen. Have you seen him? The witcher? Has he passed through here, maybe early this morning?” 

“You lost a whole witcher? How does that happen?” 

“Maja!”

Something in his voice must have warned her he was not in a joking mood. Her smile faded as she took stock of his flushed face and almost fever-bright eyes. 

“I think Old Nan mentioned she saw a strange man just before sunrise this morning, near the well. He ducked into the woods, seemed to be in a hurry. Could be your missing witcher but Geralt--hey!”

He didn’t stick around to hear the rest.

It was his only lead and his gut told him to follow it. He all but sprinted across the square back to Roach, leaving Maja and a few other villagers staring after him with wide eyes. Roach was none too pleased to be run so hard again so soon but she was a loyal beast and Geralt silently promised her an entire barrel of apples for her trouble when this mess had been dealt with. 

He pulled her reins taught to stop her as the well came into view. It was the halfway point between his cottage and the village and was abandoned at the moment, shadows beginning to stretch as evening drew closer.

Nothing stood out at first glance.

No clues to tell him if Eskel had even been through there at all, let alone hours ago. He dismounted and began to comb the area looking for any indication of less than normal activity. He raked his eyes over the bordering trees and noticed some of the low hanging branches had been snapped. Further investigation offered up a large boot prints sunk deep into the soft soil. Whoever had made the prints was most likely a man of around Geralt’s height, weighed down by traveling gear.

 _Or a pair of swords and a heavy satchel of poisons_ , Geralt thought to himself.

It was another long shot, but his gut had taken him this far. 

He glanced back at Roach, who was happily grazing at the weeds growing up around the well. If something were to happen to him, someone would certainly find her here. It made the decision to step into the woods unarmed and mostly directionless slightly easier.

The further he pushed on into the trees, the darker it became. He moved quickly, sharp eyes picking out the broken branches and trampled underbrush that he hoped marked Eskel’s path. As he light faded, Geralt found himself strangely calm. Every tree looked the same in the twilight, but he felt almost pulled in a certain direction, as if this were a trail he knew by heart.

As if he’d walked it before. 

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment the visions took him. He wasn’t even sure they were visions.

They felt more like memories that slipped through his fingers like water before he had a chance to understand them. One moment he was squinting into the darkness, the next he was striding confidently between gnarled trunks that glowed supernaturally in the darkness. The world looked washed out, black and white, like all the color had been leached out suddenly, but his night vision had improved exponentially. It was almost worth the horrible acrid taste in his mouth and the phantom burning feeling of banked fire in his veins. Sounds jumped out at him; an owl screamed in the distance and a soft fluttering above his head signaled that bats were beginning their nightly hunt.

The night was alive around him, all of his senses heightened somehow. He was a hunter in his element. 

Just ahead, a sound that didn’t belong broke through the usual forest noises. Feral snarling, the whistle of a sword through the air, and a high thin whine of pain.

The cool night breeze carried the sharp scent of lightning and spilled blood to his nose. Eskel, wounded. Another scent, rot and death, twined around Eskel’s familiar one, tainting it. It set Geralt’s teeth on edge and made a threatening growl rise in his chest. 

He reached up over his shoulder for...what?

His hand grasped at nothing where there should have been solid silver and steel. He stumbled and the memory shattered, leaving him in darkness.

He was close enough now that even his dull senses could pick up on the fight ahead of him. There was a flash of light and the smell of smoke. A small glade opened up as Geralt pushed forward. It was illuminated all around by burning bits of branches and leaves.

At the center, clutching tight to his middle with one hand and holding the other outstretched in front of him, was Eskel.

As Geralt’s eyes struggled to adjust, another bright flash of light enveloped the glade. Fire erupted from Eskel’s outstretched hand and engulfed the far half of the clearing in roaring flame. He held the spell for several moments, the heat from the flames blowing back towards where Geralt stood in the treeline, whipping his hair around his face and obscuring his vision. Eskel let out a groan and sunk to one knee. The hand producing the fire fell and the heat eased as the flames tapered off.

The whole of the far edge of the glade was burning. 

Geralt squinted into the flames hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever Eskel was fighting. From within the swirling depths of fire, a figure emerged. Geralt almost thought it was a man from its height, but the flickering light of the fire behind it illuminated a writhing awful mass of tentacles. It was unlike any creature Geralt had ever seen or heard of. Every instinct within him screamed to run as fast as he could from this place, put as much distance between himself and whatever horror stood before him, but he stood frozen on the spot. 

Slowly, the creature turned. Geralt couldn’t decern a recognizable face or eyes, but somehow he knew it was looking at him. A terrible chill shook him to his core as the creature began to shriek, a horrible reverberating metallic noise that rattled around inside Geralt’s head and made his ears ring painfully. He would know that sound anywhere, burned into his memory as solidly as it was when he first heard it weeks ago on the floor of his cottage in the middle of a storm.

This was the source.

He couldn’t look away. Slowly, so slowly, it advanced on him, awful tentacles writhing and the stink of rot and death pressing down around him like they had physical weight. 

A small explosion stopped the creature only a few feet from where Geralt had fallen to his knees, helpless. 

“I wasn’t done with you yet, you ugly piece of shit!”

Eskel’s voice rang out over the glade, strong and clear. Another explosion drew the creature’s full attention away from Geralt and back towards the prone witcher. Eskel tossed another small bomb and the creature shrieked again in rage, changing directions to crawl towards Eskel.

Geralt could see Eskel frantically patting at his chest and side, looking for more ammunition and finding none. For the first time, Geralt noticed that the witcher’s swords were missing. The steel he could just see, flung a few feet behind Eskel and stuck deep in the ground. Too far for Eskel to reach from where he was huddled on the ground.

Useless. 

Those tentacles were reaching for Eskel now, sliding forward from the mass to wrap around his neck. The witcher clawed at the appendages but they held firm and began to tighten, cutting off his airway. The first desperate gasp for air had Geralt scrambling to his feet. He had no weapon, no strength, no idea how to help, but he could not sit still and watch the life drain from Eskel’s eyes while he cowered.

His foot nudged against something solid in the grass that flashed in the firelight. 

Eskel’s missing silver sword. 

Geralt wrapped his hand around the grip of the sword and lifted it, distantly shocked at how light it was. It felt right in his hand, like an extension of himself. Runes glittered along the length of the blade and he could feel the magic within it humming along his arm, urging him forward. He took a running start, sword held at the ready, and lunged at the creature. The silver sunk deep into the thing’s back and the resulting shriek seemed to shake the very earth. Geralt caught a glimpse of Eskel’s face over the writhing tentacles in front of him.

It was the last thing he saw as he twisted the blade with all of his strength and the world shattered around him like a broken mirror. 

* * *

Geralt’s eyes snapped open.

The sky was above him, glittering with stars, and a full, slightly hazy moon threw soft light all around.

A textbook Saovine full moon. A sign of good things to come. He wished he could cash in the favor now to ease the terrible headache that raged inside his skull. When he tried to sit up, he found himself unexpectedly weak and stiff. And ravenously hungry, besides. What the hell had happened…?

He wracked his brain and though it hurt to fight the headache, the memories were there. He had been hunting. A commision. Something spiriting people away in the dead of night, never to be seen again. Desperate townspeople begging for a witcher’s assistance, but unable to provide any useful information. He’d be unprepared. And there had been someone else…

A groan just to his right startled him out of his thoughts. Eskel lay next to him looking worn out and just shy of beaten bloody, but his eyes were open and focused and when he noticed Geralt staring a smile crept onto his scarred face.

“Ah. There you are. Been looking for you, Wolf.”

“Eskel, what--damn, my head hurts--what happened?” 

Eskel just laughed.

It sounded light and relieved and genuine. And confusing. Geralt generally disliked being confused and scowled at the other witcher. Eskel took and deep breath and tried to compose himself. He pointed toward his feet, where a mound of smoking flesh lay still.

Geralt wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning putrid rot. 

“You better be asking triple the reward for this contract. Damn thing had almost sucked you dry before I got through to you.”

“Mind explaining what that ‘thing’ is?” 

“Dunno. New species, as far as I know. Here’s hoping it was the last of its kind because _fuck_ , I do not want to ever run into one of those again.”

Eskel reached a hand out to Geralt and Geralt automatically grabbed it, helping him sit up. They both stared at the smoking husk for a while longer. 

“It had you in some kind of trance. Totally unresponsive. And it was feeding off you, somehow. Sucking away your mind, life force, soul, whatever you want to call it. Any time I tried to kill it, it hurt you, too.” Eskel explained, his voice quieting. “I didn’t know what to do. I tried everything. And then I tried something else.” 

Eskel raised his hand in a pantomime of a sign Geralt knew well and the scarred witcher grimaced. 

“I think I invented a new way to use Axii. I couldn’t kill the thing here, and you were running out of time, so I came to wherever it was holding you. I wasn’t counting on it being as much of a bastard to fight there as it was here. It was interesting seeing you with red hair again. Never took you for so much of a plant fan, though.” 

Geralt gaped at him. It sounded unbelievable, but he trusted Eskel. The pounding headache and howling hunger in his belly seemed to back up the story well enough. Bits and pieces of the fantasy the creature had conjured to keep him content while it fed floated through his mind. A cottage in the woods. A garden. And a mysterious scarred witcher kissing him senseless. 

“You’re going to have to tell me that story sometime. After you buy us dinner.” Geralt said and his stomach growled in agreement. “Several dinners.”

Eskel smiled and leaned his shoulder against Geralt’s with a pleased sigh. A slight turn of his head had his nose skimming against the side of Geralt’s neck, inhaling his scent and assuring himself that Geralt truly was here with him still, alive and well. 

“Sure, Wolf. It’s still Saovine, I think we’re owed a break after this. And it’s a great story, you’ll love it.”

They pulled each other up on unsteady legs.

Eskel collected what he could of the creature as proof of its demise and Geralt straightened his armor and collected his swords from where they’d fallen. Tasks completed, the two witchers walked out of the forest under the light of the moon, intent on enjoying what remained of the holiday together. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All that we see or seem  
> Is but a dream within a dream"  
> \- Edgar Allan Poe
> 
>   
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr and twitter @vvitchering


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